


I, Magister

by SteveGarbage



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Magisters, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteveGarbage/pseuds/SteveGarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was his father’s world. This was his father’s chamber. This was his father’s fight, his father’s life, his father’s purpose. This was the life his father wanted him to have. This was the life had had run across all of Thedas to get away from. This was the life that he was supposed to despise and decry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JayRain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/gifts).



> Author’s Note: This holiday gift fic is for JayRain, who recruited me into the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers group on Facebook which has more or less dominated my free time for nearly the last year. Please go read her stuff, after, of course, finishing this story!
> 
> This story builds off my personal canon developed for Halward Pavus and Dorian's youth in my story "A Better Life," which you can also find here on AO3.

**One**

He rubbed his fingers along the dull and inert edges of the crystal, knowing it was far too late to make a house call.

The brandy in the glass in Dorian’s other hand sparked brilliantly in the hearthlight in comparison. His mother’s liquor cabinet was incredibly well-stocked. Too well-stocked, in truth. But the brandy was deep and flavorful and from a local Qarinus distillery.

Dorian crossed his feet the other way as they rested on the padded ottoman, tapping the point of the hexagonal calling crystal against the desk, spinning it end-over-end between his thumb and forefinger, then tapping the other point. He lifted the glass snifter to his lip, inhaled, and took another sip. He hadn’t done much else for the last hour.

He could not sleep. All he could do was swallow brandy and stare with his eyes unfocused.

He could not swallow the truth.

The truth that was delivered to him in a non-descript large envelope by the loyal overseer Furious Spurius. The truth that laid out in severely concise documents scripted in his father’s deliberate hand. The truth that outlined all of the shady enterprises his father had his hands stuck elbow-deep in since Dorian was a child.

The truth that explained the depth of his father’s secret and the loathing and suffering it caused the man for his entire life.

Dorian glanced down at the upturned flap of the large envelope and the papers messily piled on top of it. This was his father’s study. This was the brain where all the decisions about House Pavus were made. This is where his father’s life and heart were his entire life. It was an organ with one deep wound stabbed straight into it that never healed before his death. The wound that Dorian put there.

“You _would_ do this to me, wouldn’t you?” Dorian said to the pile of papers and his father’s ghost, wherever that might be, as he lifted the glass to his mouth again.

The papers, as expected, didn’t answer. Dorian polished off the rest of the brandy in one large, burning gulp.

He pushed some mana into the crystal, watching as it began to pulse in and out with light. He slowed his breath, matching the pulsing, his eyes focused in on the crystal and waiting, hoping someone would answer on the other end. After ten pulses of light, he cupped the crystal in his palm and cut off the flow of mana to it.

It was late. He was certainly sleeping on the other end. There would be plenty of opportunity to talk another time. Dorian laid the crystal flat on the table.

He picked up the bottle of brandy and splashed more into his empty glass. Dorian lifted his leg and crossed his feet one over the other in the other direction, and lifted the glass to his mouth again. He gave a slight nod of his head toward the stack of papers and raised the glass.

“To you, you stubborn, prideful liar.”

The brandy was bitter on his lips.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The long, long roster of magisters didn’t have nearly enough red on it.

“We don’t have any Altus families,” Dorian noted as he looked over all of the names circled in scarlet ink. There were more than he expected, but not enough with real clout.

Maevaris flipped a curl of her blonde hair back off her shoulder as she shook her head. “I’m trying, dear.”

Dorian leaned back into the leather armchair and fiddled with the edge of his mustache. The burgeoning Lucerni movement was just that, burgeoning. Maevaris had been slowly building support around her. Young, progressive families with a lot to gain were eager to flock to the cause. Social outsiders, too, like Mae and Dorian, were quick to see the value in making a radical change in Tevinter.

The legacy families though might as well have filled their seats in the Magisterium with marble statues of their ancient Dreamer ancestors. They all seemed to be too deaf and too aloof to see what was in their best interest.

Collecting influence around Maeveris had been much easier when there was an ancient Tevinter darkspawn magister romping around the south committing apocalyptic horrors. After he was neatly disintegrated back into the Fade, the zeal in Tevinter dissipated just as quickly and the Magisters turned their gaze back toward the Qunari and each other. Same as always.

Dorian hadn’t even set foot inside the upper house of the senate chamber in Minrathous yet and he was already fatigued of politics.

“Who are the Venatori holdouts?” Dorian asked, taking a different approach.

Mae dipped the second quill into the pot of green ink and began circling names. She put small x’s next to a few others. All together, there were only about a dozen left out of the more than two hundred names on long sheet. Many of those that she marked had Altus connections.

“The circles ones are confirmed,” Maevaris said. “These others, I’m fairly certain they’re associated, but I don’t have anything hard on them. Yet.”

Dorian’s eyes locked on one particular name floating within the glistening ink of one of Maevaris’ circles.

Likewise, he was glad to see that there were no marks next to Maxentius Alexius. Felix’s second cousin, once removed. He had send a brief but sincere letter offering his condolences at Halward’s death. But it stopped short of an open-ended offer of support or promised favors. Favors Dorian needed, especially from the Alexius family.

Dorian’s stomach twisted as he thought about how much he needed Felix at his side now as he navigated the labyrinthine mess of Tevinter’s cutthroat politics.

“I can get him,” Dorian said, placing his finger down next to Alexius’ name. It was a boast, more than a promise.

Maevaris wrinkled her mouth and subtly shook her head. “I wish you luck, but I won’t hold my breath,” she said. “Maxentius is old and cautious and uninspiring. Between Gereon leading the Venatori and then Felix passionately skewering them on the floor of the senate, he’s not going to take sides.”

Dorian curled his finger back into his fist and retreated from the page. He pulled his hand back and covered his mouth so that Maevaris couldn’t see his lip quiver.

“Felix…” he said, pausing to make sure his voice didn’t waver. “Did he, how was he?”

Maevaris smiled with sad eyes. “He looked deathly pale and feverish. He was leaning heavily on his father’s staff as he took the floor in the center of the ringed chamber. I thought he was going to faint.

“And then he spoke…” Maevaris said with her voice trailing off as she looked up toward the ceiling to try to hide the glass forming over her own eyes. She swallowed before looking back to Dorian. “He rattled the chamber from floor to ceiling. His voice struck like thunder, every word a forceful punch to our pride and arrogance. His eyes were on fire and I swear he locked gaze with every person in that chamber at one time, challenging them and casting them down off their pedestal. Even me.

“He threw a handfuls of Venatori insignia pins he had hand-picked off his father’s dead in Redcliffe across the floor like caltrops as he spat their names like venom into the audience. And then he called his father’s name last -- ‘Gereon Arcadius Magnus Valentian Alexius’ -- and slammed down his father’s staff onto the floor in disgust. The chamber was silent and I swear the temperature had dropped in half as he stomped off the floor.”

Maevaris sniffled. “He collapsed in the hallway away from prying eyes and coughed up black blood. I got him to his apartments in Minrathous. He died five hours later.”

Dorian didn’t even bother to wipe the tears that were pouring down his cheeks.

“The next day I introduced a resolution condemning the Venatori that overwhelmingly passed. We signed neutrality with the Inquisition shortly after. Ambassador Montilyet was then positioned to turn aside the coming war with Nevarra. Irian Amladaris nearly shit himself when the spymaster’s letter arrived with your little note about Corypheus’ true name and he was instrumental in pushing forward our efforts,” Maevaris recounted. “That’s all thanks to Felix. We’re where we are today because of him.”

Dorian nodded and wiped his nose, brushing the wetness off his cheeks with the back of his hand. “He was a great man,” Dorian said. “Like his father before him.”

“The best,” Maevaris agreed.

Dorian pointed to the other name on the sheet he had been eying, the one ringed in dark, poisonous green.

“Let me deal with her,” Dorian offered.

Maevaris nodded with a smirk. “Have fun. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you.”

They both leaned back in the leather armchairs, taking a moment to relax. All of this work, Dorian was beginning to think that being the leader of a noble house in Tevinter was even more boring and terrible than he had previously imagined.

“So tell me, Maevaris, you were actually married to Varric’s cousin?” Dorian said with a teasing sneer to lighten the mood.

Maevaris shrugged. “What can I say? Dwarves know best how to explore a girl’s Deep Roads…”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

The slave bowed as he waited in the doorway leading from the house to the balcony overlooking the vineyard.

Dorian had been here once before, a long time ago.

“Magister Dorian Pavus has arrived, my lady,” the slave announced.

“He’s not a Magister. Not yet at least,” the woman said as she rose from her chair to greet him.

“And that simple fact is one of the brightest beams of joy in my life,” Dorian said as he took her hand in his and lightly kissed her knuckles.

“My condolences for your father. I lost my own four years ago and I still miss him terribly,” she said. Her voice was laced in faux sweetness and caring that sounded nearly as flat and disingenuous as it was.

“I appreciate it, Cressida,” Dorian said.

He couldn’t help but notice the small, green jeweled pendant dangling at the end of a thin, golden chain. Dorian smiled inwardly that she had gone through enough trouble to dig out the necklace that she had been wearing the night he insulted her over dinner all those years ago. As it did then, the jewel still distracted one from her face.

It was also no coincidence that of all the places in the large estate, Cressida Ceratori had chosen to meet with him here, on the same balcony where his father had made him offer an apology to her for his rude behavior. It was the same place where his father had, assumedly, rejected her father’s suit to marry their children together. It was the same place where, assumedly, Ceratori had decided not to drop his effort to successful divert military shipping away from Qarinus that had cost House Pavus a fortune.

As Dorian sat in the cushioned wicker chair, he wondered if Cressida would make him take her down to the rose garden as they had back then. She had politely talked about her rose bushes with pride, trying her best to pretend that he hadn’t shattered all of her adolescent confidence. He played along for the day. He even gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek when they parted that made her face flush pink.

He saw her from time to time at the Circle in Minrathous the following autumn. Dorian accepted his research fellowship with Alexius that term. Cressida quietly withdrew -- withdrew was the kind term really meaning expelled -- from the school after her magic continue to falter. She returned home an embarrassment to her father.

The slave reappeared with small silver tray that he carefully placed down on the small, round table between their two chairs. “My lady, I present a 9:08 toasted-barrel barbera from Marnus Pell,” the slave said as he poured two glasses. “Silky and acidic, my lady and lord may notice a slight hint of plum and vanilla.”

He lifted a cloche revealing a small plate of bite-sized snacks as well. “For you enjoyment, the chef has prepared a goat cheese, tomato and olive flatbread as well as charred pork skewers with a smoky mango glaze for dipping.”

The slave took his leave. Dorian grabbed one of the skewers and spun the bit of charred pork in the sticky, golden sauce, snapping the meat off the tip. He followed it with a small sip of his wine. A good pairing, although he detected more of a cherry aroma than plum as he drank.

“So what brings you to my humble home, Dorian?” Cressida asked as she swirled her wine in her glass.

“Oh, let’s not be coy, Cressida,” Dorian said, grabbing another skewer from the plate. “You know why I’m here.”

Cressida sipped her wine. “The Venatori are no longer a militant army and no longer praise the Elder One. You and your Orlesian friends saw to ending that. As it should be. But the philosophy is valid. Ancient Tevinter ruled the known world. We did not sit idly by and let the weak and foolish exist because of imaginary lines drawn across land.”

Dorian paused, holding the next bite of pork just before his lips. “Yes, it worked out marvellously,” Dorian said. “Ancient Tevinter gave birth to a violent rebellion, gave the south a new martyr and deity and birthed a new religion that outnumbers the Imperial Chantry five to one in followers. I’m sure you’ve probably never travelled outside of the Imperium, but I’m sure you’d be shocked at the nasty things everyone else has to say about people like you and I.” He popped the pork into his mouth.

“Does a dragon concern itself with the bleating of sheep?” Cressida bit.

Dorian nodded in agreement as he chewed, carefully placing the second skewer down on the plate as he swallowed. “No, except when the dragon is old and fat and weak and the sheep wear armor and carry swords and outnumber it _five to one_. Neverminding the oxen, too, who carry much bigger swords and axes than the sheep and also ride boats that shoot _fire_ at the fat, old dragon.”

“The dragon is only weak because its flame has been taken out of its belly by those who chain it and force it to the level with the sheep and the crows and the corpses and dogs and peacocks,” Cressida said. She sipped her wine again as she toyed with the pendant at her chest.

“The dragon is weak because it is arrogant and thinks itself invulnerable,” Dorian said, taking a bite of one of the flatbreads. He nodded and lifted it slightly, speaking with his mouthful. “I should know. We killed several dragons in the south that viewed us, not themselves, as prey. Delicious food, by the way.”

“The Imperium lacks pride and purpose, Dorian. The Venatori seek to restore that pride. The blood and bones are weakened by the rot of families that have forgotten our values and instead indulge in sin and frivolous diversion.”

Dorian continued chewing the second bite of his flatbread, truly enjoying the tartness of the green olives, the bitterness of the purple olives and the sweetness of the fresh tomato, all tied together with a little oil and salt. He needed a good cook at home for this type of frivolous diversion.

“I can’t help but get the feeling that you’re speaking about me,” Dorian said after he swallowed and brushed his hands together to free them of crumbs.

“I hear you’re a faggot now,” Cressida answered, apparently choosing not to mince words.

“I hear you were forced to marry down to a Laetan,” Dorian responded in kind. “And you’ve gotten fat.”

Cressida certainly didn’t have the girth of some Orlesian noblewomen, but pointing out a woman’s weight was always an excellent petty go-to when civility began to turn to barbarity.

“I have three sons. All mages. How many heirs has your husband planted in you?”

“We’re not married. And you have our sexual positioning backward, not that it’s any of your business. Perhaps your husband would like some pointers on how to use his equipment? You seem rather uptight. Clearly not getting the correct attention,” Dorian continued. “That’s understandable. I’d be surprised if the Laetan knows how to read much less how to perform in the bedroom.”

“I suppose your depravity is to be expected. When your father enjoys taking it like a woman, it’s only reasonable that his son would end up the same way.”

Dorian stopped his glass before his lips at her last comment.

“My father loved my mother very much,” Dorian said, perpetrating the lie that Halward had told his entire life. “And none other.”

“Of course he did,” Cressida said with a cruel smile and drank from her wineglass again.

Dorian drank the rest of his wine, too, in a long gulp. This meeting had been more fruitful that he thought and it had only taken a few minutes of his time. More the better, since being around Cressida now was even more distasteful than it had been as a child. He placed the glass back down on the table.

“Whatever you spent on that vintage,” he said pointing to the glass. “It was too much.”

Dorian pushed himself up from his seat, looking over the sprawling vineyard and thinking of all the undeserved wealth and prestige that flowed through Cressida Ceratori because she was born to her father and he had been born to his father back to some Dreamer mage who was born long before Thedas’ people even understood the opportunity and purpose they had in life.

“It was _delightful_ seeing you again Cressida,” Dorian said. “I’m afraid your presence has left my stomach quite ill, as always. I do hope that you continue to live the righteous and honorable life you preach so fervently. I’ll show myself out.”

Dorian marched off the balcony and silently thanked his father. The man hadn’t done much in his life that Dorian could be thankful for, but he had given Dorian a nice gift posthumously.

Cressida knew secrets she should not know.

That meant Cressida had secrets she wouldn’t want others to know, too.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

The door broke at the hinges, splinters of wood cutting like spears as the thick oaken door was ripped off the frame by the dwarf being thrown through it like a catapult stone.

Dorian brushed the dust off the front of his white robes as he stepped through the broken threshold, jabbing the butt of his staff down hard into the fallen dwarf’s throat. The tubby little Carta stoolie grunted in pain as Dorian’s hand wafted over his fallen body. With a snap of his fingers, there followed a muffled bursting noise. The dwarf’s arms and legs fell still and a slow ooze of blood leaked out of every orifice in the dwarf’s head as the exploded contents of his skull began to drip out of him.

The dwarf was perched on the other end of the luxurious, dark hardwood desk that engulfed the room, his stubby feet up on the table and his fingers stuck in a small, golden box, coming out with a clump of spice held in them.

The door behind his throne-like chair swung open and another dwarf stepped in, with a rusty mace burnished in his hand. The dwarf at the desk held up his free hand though, freezing him in his place.

“It’s all right,” Brevikk said, motioning to the empty chair at Dorian’s feet. “Please, let’s be civilized. Sit, Pavus.”

The dwarf holstered his grim mace and slipped back through the heavy metal door in the back of the room without a word. Dorian rested his staff back within the hook behind his shoulder.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Dorian said, kicking aside the dead dwarf slightly as he slid the chair legs back through the small pool of blood.

“Terribly sorry about the mess,” he said as he sat.

“He’s replaceable,” Brevikk said with a brush of his hand as he lifted the other over his greyed beard, snorting the pinch of powder off of his fingertips. He gave three sharp sniffs and rubbed his nostril. “What can I do for you, Little Pavus?”

The Carta kingpin smiled, revealing a mouth mixed with silver, metal teeth and yellowed, dying ones. The creases on the dwarf’s face were deep and dark. A lifetime of spice and vice, it was a miracle anything still held the dwarf together.

“Who killed my father?” Dorian asked.

Brevikk smiled again. “Don’t you mean, ‘Who blackmailed my father all these years?’”

“I don’t care about that,” Dorian lied. He would find that out in time, too. Priorities.

“And why do you think I know anything about that?” Brevikk asked.

“My father made you a very wealthy little roach,” Dorian said. He recalled the detailed paragraph his father had left about the monthly payments that were being made to the Carta to buy their silence.

“To the tune of eight bars of bullion per month, not including all the money for spice, crystal and ownership stakes in half a dozen brothels, three mines and half the profit from a lucrative arms shipping contract between here and Seheron.” Dorian cocked his head slightly to the side and shrugged his shoulders. “To start.”

“He was a good friend of mine,” Brevikk said, pulling his feet off the top of the desk and sliding in. “We did a lot of business. That doesn’t mean I know anything about who killed him.”

“Business hasn’t been that good lately, has it? Magister Cicilliano in Carastes has been squeezing your balls even since he took over the the special task force on drug trafficking,” Dorian said. “Thanks to my father, his city has been embroiled in violent street war for the last ten years. As simple as he is, it didn’t take him long to figure out where the problem was coming from.”

Brevikk shrugged.

“You couldn’t afford to lose my father’s business,” Dorian said. “His secret is worthless now that he’s dead. So, dwarf, there are two possible outcomes. Either you didn’t see it coming and now you’re trying to find out who did it so you can blackmail them. Or you did know it was about to happen and decided you’d ridden that particular pony quite long enough and wanted a new one.”

Brevikk shrugged again. “People die.”

Dorian drummed his fingertips on the edge of the desk, curled the edge of his mustache with his other hand and chuckled. “Amusing you put it like that.”

Dorian pointed his finger forward, squinting one eye as a thin beam of black-purple energy crackled into the air, connecting the tip of Dorian’s finger to Brevikk’s forehead. The dwarf turned his eyes upward, but looked disinterested at the magic.

“It wouldn’t be smart to kill me,” he said with a grumble.

“I recently lost my father,” Dorian said. “So I’m very emotional about it and prone to not make smart decisions.”

“If you kill me, the Carta will be all over you,” Brevikk said.

“Yes, well the walls of my manor are very tall and dwarves are very short,” Dorian said. “And fat. Too fat to squeeze through the septic pipes, if you’d think to try to come in that way. Also, they’re full of shit. The pipes. Well, the dwarves too. But mostly the pipes.”

“You think walls will stop them?”

“Do you think I won’t splatter your head on the back wall if you don’t give me the information I want?”

“The Carta is far more powerful than your Magisterium.”

“I don’t care about the Magisterium,” Dorian said. An honest statement. “Give me a name. I’m getting impatient.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“I’m rewriting the rules.”

“You’re not going to do shit. You’re a pathetic little cock sucker just like your father.” Brevikk began to ramp up his rhetoric as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead under where the beam of magic stayed hooked into his head.

“Last chance.”

“Go fuck yourself, Pav--”

The back of the dwarf’s head splattered against the wall like a poorly done painting in a low-class gallery. The mix of sticky crimson blood, flecks of bone and chunks of gore began to slowly trickle down the stone walls and metal door like grim rain running down a window on a stormy eve.

Dorian was now getting the first whiff of blood and tissue. He had dispatched plenty of Venatori and Grey Wardens as well as beasts, monsters and dragons in the south. But he never could used to that raw meat and iron smell. The stink could nearly gag him in this kind of close, enclosed quarters.

As the metal door behind Brevikk’s chair began to open, Dorian quickly stood from his seat and pulled his staff, holding up his left palm toward the entryway. His hand wrapped in fire as the other dwarf poked his head in, observing the bloody painting Dorian had left upon the wall. The dwarf in the rusty splintmail armor and with the rusty mace at his side casually looked from side to side at the mess, then up at Dorian’s flaming palm.

“He didn’t feel like negotiating,” Dorian said. “I hope you’ll be more accommodating.”

The dwarf grunted and gave a nod and turned back into the dark corridor.

Dorian hesitated a moment, wondering who or what might be lying in wait behind that door. He had just exploded Brevikk’s head. The Carta kingpin had ruled in Qarinus for nearly two decades. Either the other dwarves were tired and glad to be rid of him, or they’d try to repay Dorian the same courtesy.

Either way, there was nothing to be gained if nothing was chanced. The other dwarf looked like a mute. At least Dorian wouldn’t have to listen to his empty threats.

He carefully tiptoed around the edge of the desk, lifting his feet as not to spoil his boots in the puddles of gore leaking onto the floor.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

Maevaris leafed through the stack of papers, her mouth agape.

“Where did you get this?” she asked incredulously. “There is… this is… It’s everything.”

Dorian leaned back in the leather armchair and swirled the glass of brandy in his hand. “I got it from the Carta in Qarinus,” he said triumphantly.

That stopped Maevaris’ leafing as she lowered the papers and lifted her eyes back to him. Her joy and surprise twisted quickly into concern. “They wouldn’t just hand this over,” she said. “What did you have to give them to get this?”

“I didn’t give them anything, outside of blowing up the head of their leader here in Qarinus. His little dwarf head popped like a balloon filled with jelly,” Dorian said as he sipped his brandy. “It was actually rather horrific, now that I think about it.”

“This isn’t a joke, Dorian,” Maevaris said. “You don’t--”

“Don’t fret,” he said. “Let me worry about the Carta. I’m sure Varric will be happy to do me a few favors in exchange for forgiving some of his Wicked Grace debt.”

Maevaris smirked at that notion. “You’ll only get yourself into more trouble collecting favors from a Tethras.”

The archive in the Carta headquarters in Qarinus was surprisingly deep and current, containing information about local Magisters and houses. But it also contained pieces of information from noble homes far to the south and west too. Dorian suspected the Carta operated a sophisticated exchange. Keep the original at home and spread copies to other posts throughout the Imperium and beyond. That would prevent any one person from trying to bring down the house and silence the syndicate in one swoop.

That would explain why his father hadn’t done what he had done to Brevikk years ago. He must have paid because he had no other choice. To not pay or do something brash would have brought undue disaster onto House Pavus.

He had the tongueless dwarf pull all of documents on his father. He had burned the dried and yellowed papers in his fingers. The dwarf shrugged. They weren’t worth anything now. Watching the papers crinkle and get consumed, evaporating into a puff of grey ash was oddly cathartic.

“I assume you’ll be able to use this?” Dorian said.

“Use it?” Maevaris said. “I can do more than use it. This is exactly what we needed. I’ll get my people to do a little digging and gather the information we’ll need to corroborate the information, but yes, we can use this.”

“Good,” Dorian said.

He placed his glass down on the table and folded his hands in his lap. He took a breath. Things were moving in the right direction. Maevaris had been putting her reputation on the line for years now, slowly building support in the Magisterium, fighting off threats and blackmail and doing it alone. The senate reconvened in less than a month and she would finally attempt to strike the blow she had been plotting since the beginning.

“My father was a homosexual,” Dorian announced without providing any warning.

Maevaris stopped shuffling her papers again and looked up.

“Halward? He was…”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “He’d been with men since he came of age. In secret. Someone found out and had been blackmailing him since I was a child.”

“I never knew,” Maevaris said.

“Just as he would have wanted it.”

Maevaris extended her hand, placing it lightly on Dorian’s knee. She knew the details of Dorian’s story. No doubt she was putting together the pieces in her head now the same way he had done it nights ago after reading his father’s testament.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been easy,” she offered.

Not easier than anything she had to endure. She hadn’t been born Maevaris, but it was the life she willingly chose to live since her youth. The rulership of the Tilani line would pass to a relative of her house someday because she would never have a heir of her own blood.

Not easier than anything Dorian had to endure, either. He lived in a self-imposed exile in the Alexius household for his formative years. And when his father had tried to recall him home, to try to patch up his mistakes and groom Dorian for the life he was born for, all he succeeded in doing was chasing his son far, far abroad.

Hiding was easy. Lying was easy. Pretending was easy. Being what Tevinter wanted was easy.

His father never took the hard path.

Dorian chose to walk it now, willingly.

“Thank you,” he said despite himself, before adding, “For what it’s worth.”

Maevaris straightened the stack of papers. “I need to get to work on this, if it’s fine for me to take them?”

“They’re yours,” Dorian said. “I’ve got my own little matter to attend to.”

She shot Dorian a questioning look. He returned a smile.

“Family matter.”

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Six

The white pennants snapped in the brisk wind as the convoy wound along the twisting highway into the valley.

“It’s them,” Spurius said as he peered through the looking glass. “Right on time.”

The sun was at its peak as the day slipped into noon. The horses trotted forward on the highway, two scouts riding ahead of the rest of the column to investigate the two lone riders waiting in the middle of the road. After getting a quick identification, they trotted back to the column and fell into position as it slowly approached.

A single warhorse road ahead of the rest, its rider bedecked in heavy, black armor with a long white cape flowing off his shoulders. The scabbards of swords dangled off both hips, bouncing up and down with each stride of the horse.

“Strange luck to cross paths with you here of all places, Dorian.”

The route to Marnus Pell branched off from the Imperial Highway and wasn’t on the way to Minrathous. Dorian did, in fact, have no reason to be here. No reason except because he knew this man would be on this road, heading south today.

“I met a woman in the south who used to always say ‘There is no such thing as luck, only the Maker’s providence,’” Dorian said. He could hear Cassandra’s dull voice droning in his head even as the words crossed his lips. “It is good to see you, uncle.”

“Orders, General?” a lieutenant with a riding axe dangling from the loop of his saddle asked as he swooped up next to Primus Thalrassian.

“Tell the men to remain at the ready,” Primus said. “We won’t tarry long. The dust is bad here.”

The dust from the hills was blowing in the strong wind, pushing a tan cloud through the valley. The gusting wind continued to whistle down the highway.

“In a hurry I see,” Dorian said. “I won’t keep you long. Just wanted to catch up.”

“How did you know I would be on the road?” Primus asked.

“How did you know my father would be traveling the scenic route between Qarinus and Carastes?” Dorian asked.

“What? I don’t follow,” Primus said.

“My father was killed by bandits on the road between Qarinus and Carastes. Coincidentally it happened in just about the same area where my grandfather was killed by bandits when I was a boy. Isn’t that… _providential_?”

“I still don’t--”

“You had my father killed,” Dorian said.

Primus Thalrassian looked over his shoulder back at his column of soldiers, about fifty strong. All soporati. On their way to wherever they were going. Then he looked back to Dorian.

“I did.”

His admission was blunt and seemingly made without regret. Primus had risen about as high as any non-mage could in society. He was one of Tevinter’s most decorated generals. He had countless campaign victories against the Qunari in Seheron. He controlled vast tracts of his family’s estate, although his brother Secundus had inherited his father’s seat in the Magisterium. But the magisters listened to the oldest when they needed opinion on any military matter.

Halward’s notes had briefly recounted the role he had played in killing Dorian’s grandfather, Quintus Thalrassian. Dorian remembered the day well. It was the one day from his childhood that he would never be able to forget.

It was the night that his father had tried to change him forever.

The news of his grandfather’s death had been small and insignificant in comparison.

The Carta had known who was responsible for his father’s death. And, as he expected, they had chosen not to do anything about it. It made him doubly glad that he had spattered Brevikk’s head across the wall. It was a matter of principle.

“I didn’t expect you to be this forthcoming,” Dorian said to his uncle.

“An eye for an eye,” Primus said. “I lost my father. You lost yours. Shall we call it even?”

Dorian slipped down from the saddle of his horse. He didn’t care for horses. They were supposed to go riding that morning, back then, on the worst day of his life.

“I never got a chance to love my father like you loved yours,” Dorian said as his boots touched into the dust blowing across the highway. “He couldn’t be a father to me, because of people like my grandfather and like you, uncle. He couldn’t be a father to me because Tevinter is Tevinter and has always been Tevinter. And I’m going to change that.”

Primus chuckled from the saddle as he looked down on Dorian from his illustrious mount, from behind his shiny armor and under the shadow of his exquisite swords.

“You may be a mage, nephew,” Primus said. “But I’ve fought and killed more Saarebas than you can imagine. I have a company of soldiers behind me. If you’re smart, you’d hop back up on that little pony of yours and ride back home.”

He reached back with his right hand and pulled one of his swords from its scabbard, the bared silverite blade glinting brightly in the sun.

Dorian shrugged. “You do have a lot of soldiers,” he admitted. “I can barely see them because it’s so dusty. An awful lot of… powder… blowing around today, isn’t there?”

Primus’ eyes seemed to go wide in slow motion as Dorian flicked his fingers forward, tossing the tiny ball of fire, watching as the fiery tail twisted in the wide as it twirled past his uncle.

The flash of light as the fire struck the ground was blinding, the plume of fire shooting high into the sky, the roaring crack and explosion of black powder banging through the valley. Bits of metal and horses and people pierced through the pillar of flame, shooting out of the fire like bits of confetti.

“HORNS UP!” The bellowing roar followed the crack of burning black powder.

“Horns up!” was the multi-voiced response.

The Chargers burst from their hiding places. The wide smile of Rocky’s face could be seen all the way across the valley, even under the dangling, blowing hood he wore. Swords and axes and bows and knives and “bows” all brandished as the mercenary company charged the confused and scattered line of soldiers who hadn’t been caught up in the blast.

At their lead, a hulking Qunari with a large, heavy battleaxe, massive horns and a black eye patch across the left side of his face.

Primus’s spurs hit the flank of his horse and it lurched forward just one step as Dorian twirled his staff, the wave of dark magic sweeping over the beast and freezing it in its space. His left hand flashed down toward the ground, throwing three fire mines in front of him as the horse bucked and whinnied under the magical horror shredding its mind.

The axe ripped into the horse’s back legs, crumpling it to the ground and spilling its rider into the dirt as the dying beast flailed and tried to stand and scrape its way away without one of its back legs. The snaps of fiery energy off the tip of his staff spun in the air as Primus quickly gained his feet, the twin blades spinning and knocking the magic aside.

He charged forward, leaping the fire mines before him as he flew through the air toward Dorian. His left hand spun, his fingertips touching his forehead as he pushed the mana through him, a single burst of mental energy exploding around him in a dome as it knocked Primus Thalrassian back.

As he hit the ground, he was met by the edge of Bull’s axe, crunching the metal armor at his hip with ease as it sprayed red blood around the edge of the Qunari’s edge. Primus screamed in pain at the impact as Bull shoved his body into the dust with a push of his boot, the swords skittering out of the general’s grasp.

Dorian whipped his hand across his body, throwing the paralytic energy across the field, forcing it down as Primus struggled to resist it. But he was just a man, a soporati, and Dorian was the product of generations of careful breeding and magical excellence. It was no battle as Primus’ arms and legs went limp on the ground.

“Flip him over, Bull,” Dorian said as he tossed his staff into the dirt. The Qunari used his foot and rolled Primus as easily as if he were flipping a pillow to the other side.

“Strip his breastplate,” Dorian ordered. Bull bent and obliged.

Dorian extended his right hand and his palm was filled with cool, rough leather. The coil of the lash unraveled slowly, snaking down until it swayed in the wind.

“Dorian!” Primus called from the dirt, grunting between the obvious pain of the bloody wound Iron Bull had given him. “I yield. We can work this out.”

“No, uncle,” Dorian said. “We can’t.”

Dorian recalled the way he sobbed as his father stood behind him, barking and screaming to whip the slave in the yard of their home. He had been an attractive man, tall with strong arms and sandy blonde hair that curled in small shaggy locks. They had stolen a few kisses and a few illicit touches before his cousin had walked in on them.

He couldn’t understand why his father had made him deliver the sentence. He couldn’t have understood at the time. And then he had found out about his father and it all seemed to make sense. He did it to protect himself and to try to protect Dorian from his grandfather’s wrath.

His arm wheeled now, the leather lash screaming through the air as it tore across Primus’ back, shearing his undershirt and breaking the flesh beneath. Dorian wound around again, striking a second time, drawing a new slash and fresh blood.

His uncle howled, unable to move, unable to fight as blow after blow ripped across his back until he was left with ten bleeding gashes from the whip.

Dorian opened his hand, his chest huffing up and down, and the whip fell out of his grasp onto the highway.

“Spurius.”

“Yes, my lord.” The overseer understood what he was asked. He walked up to Primus, his hand digging into the man’s black hair as he tugged his head back, exposing his neck. He pulled the knife from the sheath at his ankle, dragging it in one quick cut across Primus’ neck. He threw the dead man’s head back down into the dirt.

Iron Bull heaved his axe, resting the haft against his shoulder as he looked longingly at his men cleaning up the last of Primus’ burned and bloodied soldiers. “Not much of a fight, Boss.”

“Blame your sapper,” Dorian said. “Any more powder on the road and they might have seen the flames in Minrathous.”

“As long as we get paid,” Bull said with a shrug as he marched forward to rejoin with his company.

Dorian watched the relaxed way in which Iron Bull swaggered across the field, hit large feet carefully avoiding the bits of burnt metal and charred flesh that had landed across the field like hail. Dorian felt Spurius at his side as the overseer picked up his whip and rolled it back into a coil.

“What should we do with the body?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Dorian said. “Let the crows have it. Pick up the swords. I want to deliver them to my other uncle when I visit Minrathous.”

“Yes, my lord,” he said.

The acrid smell of smoke washed over him now as the wind changed. It carried with it that subtle smell of iron and meat, too.

“How many years had you served my father?” Dorian asked of the slave.

“Magister Halward purchased me and my mother thirty years back. I was fifteen years to the day,” he said.

Dorian nodded.

“I think you’ve more than paid your due,” Dorian said. “Thank you, for always being there for my father. I know he had no one else.”

“Your father loved you to his last day, Master Dorian,” Spurius said. “He was exceptionally proud of everything you had accomplished in the south.”

He didn’t want to believe that and he never had. It was true, he knew, but he didn’t have to accept it.

“Freedom,” Dorian said, the only work he could force out of his mouth as he watched the rising black smoke in the sky and listening to the fading sounds of battle and men dying in the valley. “It’s yours. You’re free to go when we return to Qarinus.”

Furious Spurius crossed his arms over his chest, perhaps tasting the notion of becoming one of the Liberati. He smiled, the first time Dorian had even seen the grim overseer smile in his life. He might have laughed, but that was one step too far.

“I’d prefer to stay, my lord,” Spurius said.

Dorian crossed his arms too. Spurius was a good man, despite his low birth. Perhaps he would come to trust the overseer as deeply as his father did, some day.

“Then we’ll have to negotiate a salary on the trip home.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

The apartments in Minrathous were spartan in comparison to the Pavus manor in Qarinus, but would have been considered lavish to most southerners or any of the lower classes in Tevinter.

A larger four-poster bed, lavish hardwood furniture, meticulously woven rugs, gilded touches, magefire lamps, a separate washroom with marble and a sitting room with desks, tables and comfortable chairs for entertaining guests or, Maker-forbid, conducting closed-door business.

The first-floor kitchen, he was told, was staffed at all hours of the day and prepared to make whatever was requested. The wine cellars were exceptionally deep and the complex contained a deeply stacked bar with spirits and liqueurs from the world over.

That wasn’t even mentioning servants patrolling the halls and personal pages for each magister waiting in a small, adjoined set of quarters next door. They were first-generation Laetans, typically, Maevaris had told him, the ones who seemed to had shown promise in the Circle and could someday rise to more than backwater holdings or petty functionary positions.

His page was named Paige, a young, blonde girl from right here in the capital. Her father was a moneylender and she had been educated. No doubt her father would pour his entire fortune into seeing her rise to be well off, that she might be able to provide for her mundane brothers and sisters in the future.

The Senate apartment was large and silent and dim and dreadful, Dorian thought as he tossed himself down onto the bed. The mattress was slightly firmer than his bed at home and the blankets covering it were stiff.

He reached into his pocket and slipped the blue hexagonal crystal out into his palm. Dorian pinched the crystal between his two fingers, pushing a little mana into the stone, watching as it began to pulse light in and out. It was early evening.

“Dorian?” Theo’s voice came clear into the room as the light in the crystal held, shining a dull white as it made a connection to its pair far, far to the south.

He felt both a wash of relief as Theo answered on the other end, as well as a sudden anxiety. He hadn’t called just to talk. He called because he needed to. Because this room, this place, was making him exceptionally uneasy.

“You’ll never guess where I am,” Dorian said, using a teasing tone to mask his unease.

There was a short pause. “The Magisterium.”

Dorian slouched. He supposed it wasn’t really that hard to guess. Of all the places in the world, this was the last place he wanted to be. Theo would have known that.

“You know, this is more fun when you say, ‘I give up. Where are you, Dorian?’”

Theo giggled and Dorian could picture his face as he did so. The glowing blue crystal hardly gave the same kind of personal touch as a face-to-face conversation. But it was better and more immediate than writing letters. And it left no paper trail for nosy Magisters.

“Sorry,” Theo apologized. “How is it?”

“Well, the apartment they put me up in is twice as lavish as anything in Skyhold -- your chambers, included -- but only half as nice as the rooms in the Winter Palace. And I apparently have my own page, whose job is to run around and do whatever I say whenever I say it,” Dorian said. He realized he had slaves that filled that fit that exact description too, so he didn’t know why he thought it was so out of place.

“I hope he’s not cuter than me,” Theo said.

“He is a she and no, she’s not,” Dorian said. “No one is more handsome than you. Except for me, of course.”

“So you’re a Magister now?” Theo asked.

“Not yet,” he answered. “They’ll swear me into my father’s seat tomorrow during the opening of Senate business.”

“Magister Dorian Pavus. Sexy.”

Maevaris had informed him it would be a ceremonial procedure. Archon Radonis would be in attendance and would oversee it. Then the Magisterium would hear and approve a resolution honoring his father. The measure would likely pass with unanimous support as most did. Only Magisters holding the most bitter blood feuds would vote against a honorific.

There would be some uninteresting housekeeping business and introduction of new legislation, but Maevaris had bargained her way into getting a hearing on day one of the new session.

And then all hell was guaranteed to break loose throughout the chamber.

“Dorian? Are you still there?”

There had been a long pause where he hadn’t said anything. His fingers now trembled around the crystal and he was getting short of breath. Dorian could feel a sweat breaking out and his whole head seemed to spin.

“Yes. Can you just say something? Anything.”

“Dorian, are you all right?”

“Just talk, Theo. Ramble. Read a book aloud. Please.”

“Ummm, well I’ve been meeting with Cullen and Leliana to discuss what we--”

Dorian stopped listening, but could hear the sound of Theo’s voice in the background of his head. He placed the crystal down on the thick comforter of the bed and rubbed his face with both hands, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to look around his quarters. He tried to slow down his breathing, taking a long, slow breath in, holding it in his chest for a moment before slowly letting it whistle between his lips.

He could feel his stomach twisting in circles and he was sweating but he felt cold. He slowly inhaled again, sneaking the breath between his hands that covered his eyes. His mind was racing and he could feel himself running away.

Dorian wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be sticking his nose into Tevinter politics. He wasn’t supposed to be on the inside. He wasn’t supposed to be one of them, sitting in their large, ringed chamber trading meaningless platitudes and advancing their special interests. He wasn’t supposed to be this.

This was his father’s world. This was his father’s chamber. This was his father’s fight, his father’s life, his father’s purpose. This was the life his father wanted him to have. This was the life had had run across all of Thedas to get away from. This was the life that he was supposed to despise and decry.

He couldn’t calm down. He couldn’t shut off the sense of dread that pervaded his body the moment he stepped inside the thick, black, ancient walls of Minrathous. He couldn’t stop the nausea, the sweating, the shaking, the shortness of breath, the thoughts that spun around and around and around in his head. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be doing this.

He could get up right now from the bed. He could walk to the door and open it. He could run down the hallway and dash down the staircase to the street. He could get a horse. He could ride that horse outside of the suffocating sphere or poison that was Minrathous. He could run that horse for hours, tearing up the highway as he fled to the south. He could return to Theo’s arms and help him rebuild everything that was lost and help him find Solas. He could be sarcastic and snarky and arrogant. He could lob spells at enemies and do research in the library and make love all night long.

He could run away and hide, like his father had done his entire life.

“--reports of elves gathering in the Tirashan Forest on the far west side of Orlais. There have always been Dalish there, but some of the agents have said there is much more activity going in and out of the haunted forest lately.”

“Theo?” Dorian whispered as he picked up the crystal, clasping it with both hands as he held it before his face as if it were a mirror. Holding it closer to his face didn’t make any difference in how it worked, but he did it anyway.

Theo stopped midsentence. “Yes?”

“When I came home, after my father’s death, he had a package filled with letters waiting for me. My father, he was, he was gay, like me. But he never told anyone. He kept it a secret.”

There was a quiet silence from the other end of the crystal. What could Theo really say? Dorian continued without waiting.

“He said he didn’t want me to suffer the way he did. He was always afraid someone would find out and what would happen to him and what it would mean for my future. So he kept it inside him until the day he died.” Dorian’s fingers were trembling again.

“Why couldn’t he just tell me?”

“He should have told you,” Theo said. It was meant to be comforting, but the words felt empty.

“I don’t know that I would have listened, even if he tried,” Dorian said.

“You would have,” Theo said. “And I think you would have understood. He was afraid. He wasn’t as strong and brave as you are, Dorian.”

“I acted like such an ass,” Dorian said. “If I would have known--”

“He didn’t want you to know,” Theo interrupted.

“I hated him for so many years because of what he did to me,” Dorian growled, his fingers tightening around the crystal as if he were wrapping his hands around his father’s throat.

“Maybe it was easier for him to you let hate him,” Theo offered. “Maybe it was easier for him that admitting what he did was wrong.”

Dorian knew Theo spoke from experience. His relationship with his father hadn’t been much better than Dorian and his father’s. Different, but not better.

“Dorian?” Theo called. “Dorian?”

After a moment without an answer, Theo said again. “Dorian. I love you. And I’m always here for you.”

Dorian wanted to say “I love you” in return. He wanted to let Theo know that he heard and he appreciated his support. He wanted to reach out and pull Theo into his arms right now.

But as the tears poured down Dorian’s cheeks, he knew he could not open his mouth, because if he did, it would be a wailing sob and not his voice that escaped between his lips.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

“Our enemies bang at our doors and we struggle to hold our ground against them. This chamber is so sick with corruption and greed that we cannot even, as a body, come together to agree who are enemies are. Qunari? Nevarra? Venatori? Each other?”

Maevaris was sweating as she paced back and forth across the floor in the middle of the round chamber, gesturing hard with her hands as she spit flame throughout the Magisterium. As Dorian peered around the rows of benches, he could see some of the Magisters chomping at the bit to rise out and shout their support of her scathing remarks. He could see those sitting silently fuming and preparing to cut her into pieces the second she stop speaking. And there were others, lounging and looking disinterested or dismissive of her remarks.

Archon Radonis was among the last group, a hand lazily stroking his pointed, black, oiled beard and fiddling with the golden medallions dangling from his exceptionally garish regalia.

“Tevinter is ill. We have been infected with cancer that is slowly eating away at the bones and blood that make Tevinter great and strong. It is a sickness of the mind, a delusion that we as Imperials are greater, that we are more and better than any other being living in Thedas. Once our pride blinded our ancestors to their own foolishness and they were struck down by the truth.

“It is not weakness to engage with the other nations of our world. It is not weakness to try to make peace with our enemies. It is not weakness to open dialogue and trade and understanding with those who are different from us. Tevinter can gain much from peaceful and mutual exchange. This warmongering and fantasy of exceptionalism has gone on for too long. This blinding nationalism is not the way and we are not better for shunning those outside our narrow elitism. We are lesser for it.”

Dorian’s fingers curled. Now was the moment.

“And so I, Magister Maevaris Tilani, move to call a vote of no confidence in Archon Radonis, his ministers and his government!”

Maevaris turned and cut on her heel, her right arm raised and her finger pointing damningly across the room as she started down the archon lounging apathetically in his seat. The pointed shot at his position and power had snapped him out of his daze now and he shot daggers back across the room at her.

If this move failed, Maevaris would certainly be dead by the end of the week. If she succeeded, there was still a good chance she would be dead shortly. Her life was now laid across the floor as the ante for the biggest gamble a politician could play in Tevinter.

The stack of secrets from the Carta had bought the Magisters they needed. Maevaris was nothing if not shrewd, trading dirt for votes. Dorian had personally delivered Primus’ swords to his brother Secundus. The Magister wept as he held the twin blades in his hands. He left his uncle with a simple warning. He’d be next, if he so much as looked wrong across the chamber at his nephew.

And Dorian had won his second Altus as he delivered the carefully pruned list of Venatori sympathizers and supporting evidence to Maxentius Alexius. Alexius’ left hand curled into a fist as his right hand extended to take Dorian’s in alliance.

Around Maevaris, the Magisterium erupted in a firestorm of shouting and swearing, smatterings of applause, hissing. Magisters bounded from their seats, leaning over their benches and screaming, gesturing wildly. Neighbors rose and shouted down at each other, fingers pointed in each other’s faces and spit flying from mouths like rabid dogs fighting in the streets.

Dorian sat coolly at his bench, his fingers drumming on the table as he stared down at Maevaris, who stood as still as stone but seemed to burn as brightly and hotly as flame in the middle of the chaos she reaped.

The sound of a gavel banging against wood echoed through the chamber, louder than the screaming and shouting as Magister Superiores Valerius Titan slammed the wooden gavel down in an attempt to restore order to the chamber.

The old, hoary Magister had run the Magisterium for going on a decade. The Titan family was one of the oldest and the most respected of all Altus houses. Titan was not an ally of the Archon, nor was he an enemy. He did not take sides. He was the only true neutral in the Magisterium and, because of it, all sides respected and feared his influence.

“Silence!” Titan bellowed, his voice as fierce and hale and explosive as a young man in his twenties although Valerius had to have been well past seventy. “Magister Tilani has moved for a vote of no confidence.”

“I second!”

It was now Dorian on his feet.

All eyes of the Magisterium swung to him. His fingertips pressed lightly on the table as he shouted his support through the chamber. He held them them to keep them from shaking. This was a room full of snakes and enemies.

“I,” Dorian hesitated as his tongue seemed to swell in his throat.

He never wanted to, never dreamed he would speak these words.

The words rolled out of his mouth with ease and they did not taste of bitter poison. This was the life he was groomed for. This was his father’s dream for him. No matter how far he had run abroad, all roads led to Minrathous in the end.

He didn’t belong here and he certainly didn’t want to be here. But this was for his father, for the Inquisition, for the world and for Tevinter.

And Dorian loved Tevinter.

“I, Magister Dorian Pavus.”

 

 


End file.
